


winter-made heart

by milkdaze (flowerstems)



Series: seasons change & people hope [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:28:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7111621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerstems/pseuds/milkdaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The autumn Barry holds Oliver’s hands for a minute they’re about the same height and the leaves of the trees are so red they look like flames in the sunset.</p>
            </blockquote>





	winter-made heart

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired by [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snegurochka#Folk_tale_versions_and_adaptations) as suddenly as lightning strikes and it also spiralled out of my control in a similar manner. i have no excuse for this i'm sorry. more importantly, this goes out to my waifu who always puts up with my yelling and tormenting while calling this 'winter soldier' among other things. i love you forever please forgive me for this<3

A boy born in the summer to parents desperate for a child brings such joy they swear they’ll burst from happiness; the father falls to his knees, overjoyed, the mother smiles through the tired pain, and they name him in hopes he’ll be brave and kind. When he falls ill in winter, his parents despair and call to any deity that will hear them. They weep and weep at the cradle stopping only when the room frosts over, their tears turning to ice on their cheeks and the mother cradles the baby tightly to her chest to keep him warm, the father wrapping himself around them both.

 

The Queen of Winter stands at the threshold of the room, snow in her hair, frost falling around her, and as she enters they can only stare and shiver until it’s so cold they can barely move. She looks at them the way one looks at baby animals and reaches for the baby, easily taking him from his parents’ near-frozen grasp.

 

“You wish to save this child?” She cradles the baby; he doesn’t cry, doesn’t seem to move.

 

They can’t respond, can’t cry anymore; their throats are frozen and they can feel their hearts stop. Snow falls from her hair onto the baby’s blue cheeks, onto his eyes, onto the floor and the fireplace freezes over. The mother tries to move, tries to say yes, and the Queen smiles kindly.

 

“Then he shall be saved,” and she kisses the baby’s forehead, covers him in snow. He turns white, seems to be drained of life and the couple’s screams are frozen in their throats. The Queen places the baby in his mother’s arms, moves her arms so they hold him properly, and as she walks away she says, “Your child is now a child of mine. Take care that he doesn’t melt.”

 

She opens the door and steps out into the snowstorm, turning to snow and scattering on a dazzling gust. The door slams shut and the room melts. The baby laughs, eyes big and blue, and when they thaw they hold him tight and cry, both grateful and devastated.

 

Children of the winter can’t love.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Oliver lives his entire life not knowing love. He’s sixteen when he realises this. He knows it exists, and now knows it’s missing from inside him, but it hardly bothers him. Can’t miss what you never had, though you can long for it. His parents love him, love him like he’s their whole world, love him like he’s just the same as his little sister, but her eyes and skin are warm while his eyes and skin are frozen. His heart doesn’t beat and if it knows love it will melt. He will die.

 

Still, he wants to love them, he wants to feel irrationally scared and weak at the thought of them leaving or being spirited away. He can’t return their love but he acts like he can and they give and give without asking for any in return. Thea always asks why Ollie can’t be warm and they always tell her that’s just how it is but she doesn’t treat Oliver like he’s different. Though he is different, the townsfolk let him know it daily—he’s sure they don’t mean to be unkind. Some things sound unkind no matter how you say them.

 

It’s okay because he is different. People shouldn’t melt in the summer, they’re supposed to lounge idly and stubbornly care for their crops despite the heat. People shouldn’t sit in the snow wearing only their pyjamas, they’re supposed to wear all their clothes and share all their blankets, trying to keep warm beside a fire.

 

People are different from him. They get cold in winter; they huddle around the fireplace and hold each other to keep warm all day and night. Oliver sits beside dead trees in the day and near the window where the cold night air pushes between the cracks to keep him cool. In winter he can’t hold any of them longer than five seconds because they’ll get too cold and in summer they can’t hold him too long for fear he’ll melt completely.

 

One summer night Thea held his hand too long and it turned into a puddle of water. She shrieked and wailed, apologising over and over again, and Oliver wanted to hug her but she kept pulling away. She ran inside and he stayed outside, watching the moon slide across the sky. At dawn his hand had long since frozen back in place and by midday he had teased Thea about being a scaredy cat even though he was scared his hand would be melted until he died, too.

 

Spring and autumn take pity on them; he doesn’t melt and they don’t shiver as much. Summer is too hot, he melts and freezes and melts and freezes, he has to sit in the bath more often than not. Winter is a home around home. He feels at home in the snow the same way he feels at home with his family. Not many people talk to him because they fear what they do not know.

 

One day in spring a family moves into the house on the hill that’s been empty for years. It was Oliver’s favourite place to be alone but now he can’t go there. Thea, however, doesn’t give a crap about that and thinks he should go anyway.

 

“Spring’s okay, right? You won’t melt, right?” Thea always gets so worried over that. Probably because death is a scary thought.

 

In the end Oliver goes to greet them, but after shaking his hand the man and his daughter eye him warily. They’re beautiful and right to be suspicious, he guesses, but the son doesn’t seem to give a damn. When he shakes Oliver’s hand he yelps but then shakes it again and again.

 

“How do you do that? No matter how many times I grab them your hands are still freezing!” He looks so interested, as though he were magic; Oliver squints at him.

 

“You want the truth?” The boy nods and Oliver pokes the boy’s neck to watch him jump away, yelping and holding his hand over the spot. “I’m made of snow.”

 

The boy laughs despite the frostbite in his hands and Oliver is almost confused before he remembers this reaction is only natural.

 

“That’s hilarious! People have water in them, not snow,” he states, folding his arms to tuck them into his sides and what’s hilarious is that he seems to think Oliver won’t notice.

 

“Who are you to say that? Haven’t you heard the tales? I’m special.”

 

“Sure,” he drawls and Oliver hardly appreciates the sarcasm. “What’s your name, Mr. Special?”

 

“Oliver. What’s your name, nonbeliever?”

 

“I’m Barry.” He sticks his hand out again and Oliver ignores it, he doesn’t want to make the kid’s hand fall off, but Barry grabs his hand and shakes it, holding his hand in place for three seconds before pulling back with a wail. “How are your hands so cold?”

 

“I already told you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Oliver’s sixteen when he realises he's truly incapable of love. Oliver's sixteen when he meets Barry, a bubbly child who's quick on his feet, too curious for his own good, and his first friend in a long time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

For the next few weeks, Oliver meets Barry behind his house because Barry wants to prove (to himself) that he can hold Oliver’s hand for a minute. At first Oliver doesn’t see the point in the challenge and Barry chases him around the lawn trying to grab hold of him, but when Oliver gets tired of running around—trying to run from Barry is as tiring and futile as trying to catch Thea—he lets Barry grab his arm and the way Barry shrieks almost immediately is too funny to not enjoy as often as possible. So Oliver lets the kid grab and hold his hand as long as he wants; Barry is able to keep his hold for three seconds then five seconds then ten seconds. It takes months for Barry to be able to hold Oliver’s hand for twelve seconds and whenever Barry’s hands start to blister from the cold Oliver forces him to stop.

 

“Do you want your hands to fall off?” Oliver sighs, holding his hands above his head and Barry struggles on his toes trying to reach them. “You’re just a kid, use ‘em while you’ve got ‘em. For better things.”

 

“Right now I wanna use them for this,” Barry says stubbornly, stretching until he’s unbalanced so when Oliver purposely bumps into him Barry almost falls over, stumbling away then pouting at the ground and mumbling, “and I’m not a kid.”

 

“Yeah? Then what are you?”

 

“Kids are baby goats! I’m a twelve-year-old boy!”

 

Oliver thinks he’ll never have children. “You’re a _boy_ all right.”

 

Barry huffs and jumps at him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In the winter Oliver doesn’t let Barry go through with his challenge. They fight over it; Barry calls him a _grumpy snowman_ and it hurts even though it’s true in more ways than Barry will admit. Oliver tells him he can go ahead and freeze since he seems desperate to become an icicle, too.

 

Oliver sulks for a week. Thea just sits beside him and they play _I Spy_ until she falls asleep. He’s quick to carry her to bed and wrap her up with her blankets before sneaking into the night. It’s not late yet even the snowfall seems sleepy with the way the snow drifts slowly into small clumps. Oliver walks around the village barefoot, blowing out lanterns and kicking at piles of snow until he gets to Barry’s house.

 

Barry’s sitting outside on the frozen path linking his house to the road, wrapped up in pink and purple and blue and orange blankets (blue and purple dyes are so expensive), face almost blue as he sits there and sniffles, stubbornly ignoring Oliver even when he walks close enough to push Barry over. Oliver sits beside him on the frozen ground wondering why Barry would do this to himself; Oliver knows the winter cold is unpleasant for people so what the hell is Barry doing?

 

“When I said you could freeze, I didn’t mean it.” Barry doesn’t respond, he just keeps shivering and sniffling. “I’m sorry.” Barry looks at him then quickly looks away with a huff. “You can do it again in spring.”

 

“Why can’t I do it now?” Barry whines and his cheeks look swollen. Oliver thinks he should go inside.

 

“Because your hand might fall off.”

 

Barry screws his face up tight, sniffling and maybe pulling the blankets tighter around himself, Oliver can’t tell because they’re so… poofy. He looks like a lamb. “That’s not possible!”

 

Oliver holds his hand out and Barry stares at it in the dim light of the lantern. When Oliver gets tired of holding his hand out he shoves it into the blankets Barry has wrapped around him. Barry stares at the spot where Oliver’s wrist disappears between the blankets and screeches when the cold of it hits him. He tries to move away but the blankets restrict him so he wriggles around like a worm—Oliver laughs.

 

“See? You don’t want to hold it right now. It’s too cold for you.”

 

Barry curls into himself tightly, mumbling for a while before struggling to his feet and declaring, “One day, it’ll be easy for me to hold your hand!” He looks so determined Oliver’s reminded of the dog Thea plays with during the warmer seasons.

 

“Why would you even want to hold my hand?”

 

“I heard people saying no one can touch you because you’re too cold. They say it's impossible!” Barry seems to stand a little taller, shivering against the wind but keeping his head up despite it, “I’ll show them! Nothing’s impossible! They're just lazy jerks.”

 

Oliver feels his face go through too many expressions in too short a time—of course, Barry’s just a child after all. Children always do weird things to prove weirder things. For a second the thought surprises himself, but not as much as Barry surprises him. “You’re just a weirdo.”

 

Barry grins but looks down, kicks at some snow and then screeches again. “You’re barefoot!”

 

“Will you stop yelling? People will start to think I’m bullying you.”

 

“How are you barefoot?” Barry yells, again, despite Oliver’s shushing. Why does he even talk to this kid?

 

“I told you, I’m snow.”

 

“Quit lying!”

 

“I’m not!” Oliver feels an unfamiliar irritation, the kind he felt when he was a child and the other children wouldn’t play with him because their parents told them to stay away. He wants to punch Barry but he twists his mouth and folds his arms tight against himself instead. “Go inside, Barry. You’re gonna get sick.”

 

“Why don’t you ever tell me the truth?” Barry’s still sniffling but now his face looks a little purple—red and blue make purple. Oh no, is he gonna cry? Barry sniffles and stares at him, shivering even more now and Oliver doesn’t know what to do.

 

“I’m not lying,” he lets his arms fall to his side, feeling his irritation drain from his fingers and leave him comfortably cold in the wind. “Go inside, Barry. If you do, I’ll show you something cool in spring.”

 

Barry kicks at the snow, eyes still wide and flying between Oliver’s bare feet and his hands. “Promise?”

 

“Mhm, and it’ll prove I’m not lying to you.”

 

Barry looks at the ground, not saying anything until another strong gust drags shivers out of him again. “Okay, you better! If you’re lying we won’t be friends anymore!”

 

Oliver puts a hand over where his heart should be, “I promise.”

 

Barry grins, the only red in his face at the tip of his nose, then he waddles back inside. Oliver doesn’t leave until he’s rounded the house twice and he’s sure Barry won’t try to sneak out again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Near the end of spring Barry is thirteen, Oliver is seventeen, and the trees and flowers are all alive and warm. When Oliver touches them he leaves frost but when he dips his hands or feet into the river he slowly melts. He walks with Barry along the river and when they’re far beyond the sight of prying eyes Oliver asks, “Remember the thing I said I’d show you?” Barry nods, looking a little too excited over nothing, grinning a little too widely and Oliver ends up smiling, too. “Okay, watch this.”

 

He walks over to the river bank and stoops beside it. Just as he’s about to dip his hand into the water he spins to Barry and says, “You can’t freak out, okay? Swear you won’t.”

 

Barry presses his lips together, looking confused, but when Oliver only glares at him Barry nods quickly, putting a hand over his heart. “I swear I won’t freak out.”

 

Satisfied with the declaration, Oliver turns to the river, his mouth is suddenly dry, and he feels warmer than he should on a day so cool but he’s already come all this way; besides, Barry promised he wouldn’t freak out. He dips his hand into the running water and bites the inside of his cheek, feeling his hand burn and melt away in a matter of minutes. His mouth tastes like copper when he stands and turns to Barry, holding his arm out, dripping and melting at the wrist, hand missing.

 

Barry’s eyes open wide and Oliver lunges at him, slapping his hand over Barry’s mouth and shushing him. “Shh, shh, you said you wouldn’t freak out!” But Barry pulls away and starts rubbing his hands over his face, hissing about how cold Oliver’s hand feels.

 

“Your hand,” Barry stammers, around his mouth red from the cold and the way he keeps rubbing at it, “where’d it go?” His eyes are wide, _fear,_ and Oliver expected it, he told himself he could handle any reaction, but it still stings.

 

“It melted,” Oliver sighs, looking at his wrist. He doesn’t know if it’ll come back or not, he never let his hand wash away before, but he melts and freezes all the time. It should be okay. “It usually grows back! But it only melted once before so I’m not sure-”

 

“You dumbass!” Barry’s red in the face and Oliver’s not sure why he looks so angry so suddenly.

 

“How am I the dumbass?”

 

“Who melts their hand off to prove a point?”

 

“What?” Is Barry for real? Oliver doesn’t know if he feels annoyed or confused. “You’re the one who wouldn’t believe me!”

 

Barry stops at that, looking more ashamed than angry. “That’s true,” he mumbles, rubbing the nape of his neck, “but still.”

 

They stand there for a while, sweat plastering Barry’s hair to his forehead in the humid air and Oliver feeling like he’s melting and cooling at the same time. He can feel his hand slowly growing back and Barry blatantly stares when he notices.

 

“Can you not stare at it?”

 

“But it’s so…” Oliver glares at him but Barry keeps talking, “It’s like magic.”

 

“Don’t make me regret this,” Oliver warns. Barry grins at him.

 

“So when it grows back I can try holding it again, right?”

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“I am,” Barry says sincerely, tugging Oliver away from the river bank, “I want to beat my record!”

 

“Twenty seconds isn’t much of a record.”

 

“Don’t say that. I worked hard for that record!”

 

When Oliver’s hand is frozen in place, looking the same as ever, Barry really does grab and hold it yet again. He holds it for twenty-one seconds before letting go and rubbing his hands together frantically. Oliver laughs at him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

This is the second summer they’ve known each other. Oliver is eighteen, Barry is almost fourteen, and he sits beside the bath, head resting on the rim of the tub as he stares at Oliver melt and freeze, melt and freeze.

 

When summer had crept up on them without either of them noticing, Oliver almost falls over, legs weakening and melting in the heat. Barry panicked and dragged Oliver into the shade of a large tree so when his legs reformed and froze Oliver ran off without warning. Barry followed him home, entered the house easily because the door was left wide open, and promptly had to sit down near the bathroom door when he saw Oliver sitting in the tub, body quickly melting and slowly freezing over and over.

 

It’s been two weeks since then and Barry says, “Is it weird that I’m getting used to seeing you melt?”

 

“My family is used to it.” Oliver keeps cracking his fingers until they melt and when they melt he waits for them to reform so he can get back to cracking them, but now he stops and looks at Barry out of the corner of his eye. “You spend a lot of time trying to break your record. It’s only natural you’d get used to it, too.”

 

“You could have just said yes or no,” Barry groans and Oliver raises his hand to poke Barry’s forehead but his hand melts away, water dripping onto Barry’s head. Barry leans away when Oliver just lets it happen. “What are you doing?”

 

“I’m bothering you.”

 

“I noticed.” Barry wipes the water off his face then dries his hand on Oliver’s shirt. Oliver twists his mouth but doesn’t say anything because he deserved that. “Why do you hang out with me?”

 

“Why?” Barry looks at him the way the townsfolk look at anyone who says aliens are real (which is usually Barry), “Because it’s fun, obviously.”

 

“It’s not a pity thing?”

 

It’s like the question set something off, some kind of trap, because Barry looks insulted, eyes wide and mouth open as though he has something to argue about but no voice to argue with. Oliver’s hand starts reforming.

 

“Why would it be a pity thing? Your entire body is snow. Yes, I admit it,” Barry sighs, waving his hands as though he’s trying to wave away Oliver’s smug grin, “but aside from that. You entertain my weird ideas, you always have something cool to show me, and you melted off your damn hand to prove a point! That’s kinda badass.”

 

Oliver would smack Barry upside the head if he had the hands to do it but he doesn’t at the moment so he just shrugs, still smug. “Only ‘kinda’?”

 

“Yeah, only ‘kinda’,” Barry smiles, splashing some of the water in the tub at Oliver.

 

“Quit being so nice,” Oliver rolls his eyes and sinks lower into the tub even though it’s mostly empty. He swings his hand at Barry and the parts of his hand that haven’t frozen splash Barry’s cheek.  “It makes me want to bully you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

In autumn Barry goes right back to trying to break his record, grabbing and holding Oliver’s hands for twenty-one seconds, then twenty-three, then twenty-six. He does it at the strangest times, too. Like when Oliver is pointing out something different in the environment like a baby bird or the changing colours of the leaves.

 

Sometimes Barry does it right after a complex explanation about electricity or what he read about Newton—Oliver always dozes off when Barry gets carried away talking about things he doesn’t care for; it’s sweet that he tries to listen but the vacant stare is nothing but a green light for Barry to grab his hand. Doing that snaps Oliver out of it just in time to see Barry pull back and sit on his hand, grinning. “Twenty-seven seconds!”

 

“Do you really count?” Barry nods and Oliver snorts, he’s not sure why he asked. “You know, once Thea held my hand so long it melted.”

 

“What?” Barry’s mouth drops open, Oliver can see just when his jaw goes slack and how hard it is for Barry to believe it. He stares at his hand, red and maybe numb, and Oliver chuckles at the look on his face. “How did she even do that?”

 

Oliver shrugs, “No idea, but she obviously has a better record than you do.”

 

Barry huffs and shoves Oliver with his shoulder, leaning on him after and Oliver’s surprised he doesn’t jump away. “You’re cooler in autumn than in spring.”

 

“What?”

 

“You’re warmer in spring,” Barry says, glancing at him then wriggling around to get comfortable. “You say Thea is the reigning champion when it comes to holding your hand?”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“Then I’ll just have to break her record,” the way he says it, as though it the most natural thing, as though holding an icicle-shaped hand until it melts is nothing at all, makes Oliver laugh. “Quit laughing!”

 

Oliver presses his cheek to his free shoulder and snorts, “Then quit making jokes.”

 

Barry pushes himself off Oliver harder than he needs to and he sits up just to level him with a glare. He’s still shorter than Oliver (even though he’s growing, quick) and his glare probably isn’t as intimidating as he wants it to be. “You always doubt me. What am I going to get when I finally prove you wrong?”

 

“The satisfaction of being right.”

 

“Good enough.”

 

Barry doesn’t grab his hand for the rest of the day. He doesn’t grab his hand for the rest of the week, he just leans on him quietly and Oliver lets him because Barry’s right. He’s cooler in autumn; Barry leaning on him doesn’t cause his shoulder to start melting. It’s fine because next week Barry will go back to doing weird things with Oliver and trying to prove some point by grabbing is hand over and over and Oliver will let him because he has nothing better to do.

 

Oliver feels a little warmer.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Years come and go without much changing; they’re all growing up, the older townsfolk still ignore Oliver, but the younger ones talk to him whenever they see him. At some point they all apologise for ignoring him but Oliver hardly acknowledges it—it’s not like it matters now.

 

When Oliver’s twenty he mentions feeling warmer than usual in autumn to his mother and she all but panics. His father has to calm her down and reassure her that everything is right and fine and nothing bad is going to happen. She doesn’t seem to believe him and Oliver doesn’t mention feeling warmer again.

 

Barry’s record is forty seconds.

 

When he’s twenty-two he spends a few winter days in another town—the people were pleasant and kept to themselves, it was nice—and he gets lost on his way back home. It’s hardly an issue. The blizzard makes it hard to see but he finds a sturdy tree, chews on icicles he breaks off the branch he perches on and makes his rations last the nights while he sleeps through the day.

 

It’s almost dawn when he sees the outskirts of town and he runs towards the lights; he never thought he would be happy to see it like this, but the wind picks up and he’s blown face-first into the snow. He groans and rolls over, wondering if he really needs to get up right this moment, and he sees a tall woman looking down at him. She’s so pale he almost doesn’t notice her in the snowy winds but she stands there, looking like an ice sculpture. Suddenly he doesn’t want to move.

 

She smiles at him, extends a hand and when he takes it she pulls him up easily. Her hair is white, her eyes are blue, and she’s almost taller than him or at least he thinks she is, he can’t see her through the snow. Maybe her eyes are brown, maybe her hair is black, but she takes his hand and guides him back to the village. Her hand doesn’t burn around his and that scares him because everyone’s hands burn around his, the only way hers wouldn’t burn him is if she were as cold as he is.

 

That’s just not possible.

 

She leads him home and in the light of the lanterns he sees her hair really is white, her eyes may be glinting blue, and they walk shoulder to shoulder. The blizzard kicks up and she leaves him at the door to his home. When he glances over his shoulder she’s gone and when his mother asks him what happened he tells her the truth but doesn’t mention the woman.

 

He tries to forget about her. When he wakes up the next morning the town is blanketed in white and the snow falls gently, last night’s blizzard already forgotten.

 

“I can’t believe you got lost-”

 

“Anyone would get lost in that blizzard, stop laughing at me.”

 

Barry can’t hold his hand longer than five seconds for the rest of the week. For some reason it pisses Oliver off more than it does Barry.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The autumn Barry holds Oliver’s hands for a minute they’re about the same height and the leaves of the trees are so red they look like flames in the sunset. Oliver’s hands warm and melt a little in Barry’s grasp, cold water wetting his hands. Barry’s twenty and he’s torn between cheering and complaining about his wet hands while Oliver’s twenty-four and he stares at his hands in shock as they freeze over the moment Barry lets go.

 

“I finally did it!” Barry swings his arms into the air after drying them on Oliver’s shirt. “They almost melted, too!”

 

Oliver narrows his eyes and pulls his hands away from Barry, “Don’t tell me now you’ll want to make my hands melt.” Barry hums, folding his arms and looking like he’s honestly considering it. Oliver slides to the other end of the bench they’re sitting on. “Do not even.”

 

“Relax,” Barry laughs, “I still have to beat Thea’s record, remember?”

 

Oliver does relax, just a little, and when Barry doesn’t say anything else he lets out something of a laugh and a sigh. “I can’t believe you’re still doing this. It’s been years.”

 

“It’s tradition. I can’t stop now.” Barry slides across the bench, taking up the space between them, and Oliver laughs.

 

“I’m starting to think you’ve just been using this as an excuse to hold my hands.” Barry doesn’t respond even after Oliver stops laughing and when Oliver stops to think about it he opens his mouth before thinking of what he should say. “Wait, don’t tell me.”

 

“At some point,” Barry blurts then stops himself, mouth twisting as though he’s trying to bite out his tongue and both cheeks before he rubs his neck and continues, “I mean. I still want to prove that those jerks were wrong to outcast you just because you’re different. Just because you’re snow.” When Barry says it, it doesn’t sound bad at all.

 

“I’m waiting for the ‘but’,” Oliver says lightly and it does get a smile from Barry but his shoulders are still tense. Oh man, Oliver didn’t even consider this.

 

“But,” Barry laughs a little, maybe because Oliver snorts when he says it, “you’re. I don’t know. I guess. I just ended up liking you.”

 

“I like you, too.”

 

“You know what I mean.” Barry looks so embarrassed, red colours from the tips of his ears all the way down his neck and Oliver doesn’t think telling him to relax will relax him at all. Oliver smacks the back of his hand on Barry’s cheek and Barry hisses and pulls away. “What was that for?”

 

“Your whole head is red,” Oliver grins and Barry’s hands smack each other far more than they smack Oliver’s hand away. He knows exactly what Barry means—it’s the kind of like Thea tells him about every day when it comes to this one guy and Oliver gets it. It’s probably why he keeps letting Barry hold his hands even though it’s not-so-great for either of them; Oliver melts and Barry shivers. Still, Barry wants to and Oliver doesn’t mind. “You can keep doing it.”

 

“Keep doing what?” Barry’s hand looks like it’s stuck to his cheek the way he refuses to move it, either because he’s trying to warm it up or because he’s trying to hide his embarrassment. It doesn’t seem to be working either way.

 

“Keep trying to melt my hand. It’ll come back, anyway.”

 

Barry stares at him for a while and Oliver stops making eye contact when his fingers start to melt. He stares at them instead and Barry stares for a while before yelling, “Holy shit!”

 

“Barry, shut up-”

 

“Wait, no, is this how you blush? Do you melt-” Oliver shoves his hand down the back of Barry’s shirt and Oliver doesn’t remember a time Barry agreed to leave something alone as quickly as he does when Oliver splays his hand between Barry’s warm shoulder blades.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Oliver is twenty-four when he realises Barry likes him and Barry is twenty when he finds out Oliver probably likes him just the same and never realised it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Oliver tells Thea and she freaks out—in the good way and the bad way.

 

“I can’t believe it, you’re crushing on the guy who stole your favourite hangout!” Then she leans in, holding her ankles and glancing over her shoulder, “You’re not going to tell mom, are you?”

 

“No way,” Oliver feels his shoulders slump as he says it but there’s no way he can tell their mother, “she’ll kill me herself.”

 

“Will you really die?”

 

“What?”

 

“If you love someone,” Thea’s voice cracks even though her expression doesn’t, “will you really die?”

 

“I don’t know.” He really doesn’t know, but he sure hopes he won’t die. “I love you and I’m fine.”

 

She looks at him suspiciously. It’s not something any of them talk about anymore, it’s just an old myth after all, and Oliver’s lived as long as he has. Surely he’s fallen in love before? Now will be the same as any other time and he won’t even notice.

 

Oliver’s chest feels warm when he thinks of Barry and that’s not something that’s happened with anyone else.

 

Maybe he never noticed it.

 

“If you say so, Ollie.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

That winter there’s another blizzard. It’s as strong as the one he met the woman in and he’s tempted to go out into the night. He waits until everyone’s asleep and he wanders out, slowly walking through the knee-deep snow until he’s at the edge of town. It’s hard to see and it’s so cold he feels at peace but nothing happens for a long time; he’s about to go home when he feels a hand that doesn’t burn on his shoulder.

 

It’s her. He turns around and she stands there, a little taller than him, lips spread in that same smile, the smile that’s always on her face. “My child,” she says and she sounds both near and far, “it seems you’ve run into some trouble.”

 

“Trouble?” She nods and Oliver tips his head just so, as though it will help him understand what she means. “What trouble?”

 

“Your heart,” she pokes his chest with her fingertip, presses it there for a long while, and it doesn’t burn, “it’s melting.”

 

“My heart?” Oliver’s never felt his heart beat. Thea says it feels like jumping around except inside your body but that’s never happened so he assumed he didn’t have a heart. “I don’t have one.”

 

The woman laughs like a whip crack, eyes like lightning as she pokes his chest harder and harder, “Don’t be foolish, everything has a heart, even those icicles you chewed up years ago.” Oliver’s eyes go wide and she chortles then falls silent. It’s as though she’s waiting for him to say something but he has nothing to say and when the wind stops howling she speaks. “You must have realised it.”

 

“Realised what?”

 

“My son, you’ve become so dishonest.” Oliver doesn’t say anything. She just laughs and continues, “You must know you’ve fallen in love.”

 

Oliver stumbles back and almost falls into the snow but she grabs his wrist and easily pulls him upright. “Who are you?”

 

“You can think of me as a guardian,” she says after a long time and she laughs when he narrows his eyes at her.

 

“I thought I couldn’t feel love.”

 

“It true, you’re too cold to love,” it hurts, especially when it comes from someone as cold as he is, “just like I am.” That distracts him. “It’s simple, my child, really. You can love, but it will melt your heart and you will die. Consider this a warning and do what you will.”

 

There’s a harsh gust, cold and splintering even to him, and when he looks up again she’s gone. He lets himself fall into the snow and lies there, regretting leaving the house at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up in the morning and realises he fell asleep in the snow. On any other day that wouldn’t bother him but today he feels cold—he never feels cold.

 

Death, huh. He closes his eyes and lies there for a while. His chest feels warmer than usual and he stares up at the sky. When he sighs he can see the puff of air wisp away and he sits up, disturbed. Maybe it’s just his time. When he returns home Thea and his father scold him but his mother just looks at him and he knows she knows. After Thea smacks his arm one too many times to count and his father lets it go his mother walks over and hugs him, tight.

 

“You used to be too cold to hug in the winter.”

 

Oliver doesn’t know what to say so he just wraps his arms around her until she shivers then he laughs. “I still am,” but they both know that’s not true.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Oliver decides to tell Barry in the spring when the snow is almost all melted and the flora and fauna revive; even if it’s just a myth, even if it’s just some woman’s warning. If there’s a chance Oliver’s going to die his family should know. Just as Barry should know. Thea was always worried about death. They all knew this was coming, all of them except Barry.

 

Oliver is still twenty-four, Barry is still twenty, and Barry doesn’t take the news well at all. In fact, he stands in shock for minutes then he forces out these broken sounding laughs that hurt to hear and starts asking if this is some kind of cruel joke. His eyes start to well up and he looks like he’s choking—Oliver didn’t want to hurt Barry. He told him because he thought not telling him would be worse. Wouldn’t it have been worse?

 

Barry’s pacing now, quickly walking back and forth while dragging his hands over his face and through his hair and rubbing his neck over and over. Oliver doesn’t know what say, he’s probably said enough, so he hugs Barry. That’s when Barry starts to cry. Oliver’s shoulder feels warm, damp, and the way Barry shakes in his arms and digs his knuckles into his back makes Oliver want to cry, too.

 

“I don’t understand,” the words sound like Barry is wrenching them out of himself and Oliver shakes his head because he doesn’t understand, either.

 

“Forget about it, Barry. Just forget about it.”

 

“No,” he rests his forehead on Oliver’s shoulder and Oliver feels Barry’s tears fall on his foot. They’re warm and they tickle a little. “It’s so weird, I can’t imagine you not being here with us.”

 

He holds Barry close and Barry shivers but refuses to pull away. Oliver’s arms melt slowly where they’re pressed up against Barry but he focuses on trying to count the vertebrae of Barry’s spine through his clothes instead of the pain. Barry is hurting because of Oliver so it’s only right for Oliver to hurt the same. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you,” Oliver sighs and rests his head against Barry’s. Maybe he’ll end up crying, too.

 

It was just supposed to be a myth.

 

“You’re always warmer in spring.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Is it my fault?” Barry asks one morning as they’re walking along the river. Barry walks between Oliver and the river and Oliver shakes his head.

 

“It’s my fault.” Oliver says simply and Barry doesn’t say anything else. Barry holds his hand and it burns, Oliver squeezes Barry’s hand and he can feel him shiver.

 

Barry looks down and Oliver keeps looking at him. He looks better today, he’s not as sad as Monday. “You still don’t wear shoes, you’re the weirdo,” Barry sighs. Oliver laughs and bumps their shoulders together.

 

Barry’s record is three minutes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the summer Barry panics because Oliver melts too quickly, melts too much. Oliver tries to reassure him that he’s fine, everything’s fine, and when autumn comes he’ll stop melting, but Barry still panics and stays with Oliver all summer.

 

“Your arms are melting off! Both arms!” Barry buries his face in his hands and keeps trying to come up with ways to ease the melting—nothing helps. Oliver wants to run a hand through his hair to comfort him but he can’t.

 

“It’ll be fine, don’t worry.” Truth is, Oliver’s a little worried. Even though he always melts in the summer he never melts _this_ much and it doesn’t take this long for him to cool down. He feels so warm and his arms have been gone for almost an hour. “Look my legs are still fine,” he jokes, raising his leg out of the tub to nudge at Barry’s arms.

 

It takes five minutes for Oliver’s arms to freeze after they’ve reformed and the moment they do he leans out of the bath and hugs Barry, arms immediately melting because of the heat.

 

“Ollie, what are you doing, they just grew back-”

 

“Shh,” Oliver hums, “keep frowning like that and you’ll look like an old man.”

 

“What does that matter?”

 

“I’m not dating an old man.” Oliver doesn’t know if Barry starts laughing because he’s genuinely amused or because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Shouldn’t you be more upset about me soaking your favourite shirt?”

 

Barry snorts and hugs Oliver until his waist starts to melt at which point he lets his arms fall to his side and screams, the sound of it swallowed down because Oliver kisses him. Oliver only moves away when his arms are too melted to be able to hold him up and when he sinks back into the tub Barry still hasn’t moved, hands holding the chair legs so tightly his knuckles look white.

 

“A little warning next time,” he sighs eventually, face red, expression still a worried frown and Oliver laughs and sinks into the tub, filled to the brim with cold water.

 

Barry changes into one of Oliver’s shirts then goes right back to sitting beside the tub. Oliver tries to shoo him but he stays.

 

Every day, he comes and stays.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In autumn Oliver stops melting but he’s warm to the touch. His mother cries and cries and his father does, too. Thea just hugs him, eyes welling up with tears she won’t let fall. He meets with Barry near the river and Barry tries not to cry.

 

You’d think knowing would make it easier. It doesn’t.

 

“Listen, Barry,” Oliver says, taking Barry’s hands in his own and he’s so glad Barry doesn’t shiver he can’t help but smile, “I want you to be happy.”

 

“Do you hear yourself?” Barry laughs, it’s cynical and doesn’t sound right in his voice. Barry’s voice that always speaks of hope and making the impossible possible.

 

“No matter what it takes,” Oliver squeezes Barry’s hands in his own, insistent, “I want you to be happy.”

 

“Stop it.”

 

“Leave this town, go travel,” Oliver continues and Barry looks away, “go find some people who’ll make impossible things easy with you.”

 

“I don’t want to,” Barry clenches his jaw, scowling and sniffling and looking a lot like the child who got upset and sat outside while wrapped up in blankets in the middle of winter because a boy made of snow didn’t want him to get frostbite. “I want you to stay. If you’re not here whose hand will I hold and melt?”

 

“Barry, you know better,” Oliver laughs quietly, letting go of Barry’s hands to cradle his face. Oliver can feel it now, he’s sure about it, the way his chest aches and burns, the way looking at Barry makes him feel so happy and so sad all at once, the way it’s suddenly hard to look at Barry because his vision has gone blurry. This is what love feels like and right now he’ll admit it’s the most painful thing ever and he fucking hates it. “There’s no one else you can make melt. People aren’t made of snow, remember?”

 

“You’re made of snow,” Barry stammers, tears slipping down his cheeks, and Oliver’s sorry, he really is, but he can’t fight this off. “I can hold your hand and make it melt.” Barry puts his hands over Oliver’s, squeezes them, and they’re so warm Barry starts crying.

 

“I’m so sorry, Barry.” Oliver presses their foreheads together and it doesn’t burn. For the first time touching Barry doesn’t burn and it makes him so sad because he’ll never be able to feel Barry again. He kisses Barry carefully, out of habit, and it’s warm. It’s not hot, Barry doesn’t shiver, and Oliver tries to make it last.

 

His chest burns and he can feel his heart melt completely—he can feel himself start to die. “I love you.” And it’s the last thing he can force himself to say before he starts to melt. His legs get weak and he falls, Barry dropping down beside him and cradling him to his chest. He feels so hot and Barry feels so cool against him, even though he’s crying and his whole face is red. Oliver can’t speak anymore, can barely move now, but he has enough energy to brush the back of his hand against Barry’s cheeks, just long enough to wipe away his tears. Then Oliver’s hands start to melt, along with the rest of him, and he can hear Barry struggling not to cry as he murmurs _I love yous_ over and over.

 

It’s the first time anyone was brave enough to tell him that and it’s the last thing he hears.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Barry is twenty-one when he loses his love; Oliver is twenty-five when he dies in the arms of his love.


End file.
